Dog Gone (14 page)

“Do you think Ms. Hunter will be mad if I withdraw from the horse show?” My voice sounds whinier than a cat caught in cold rain. And I hate whiny.

Cub shakes his head. This doesn't surprise me, really. Sometimes I think he knows, has known for a while, that I could use a break from competing.

He picks up Mom's favorite wooden mixing spoon. He studies the handle, dotted with tiny dents from my baby teeth. He's held this spoon a thousand times, but right now it fascinates him. He blinks at it with faraway eyes that tell me he's thinking about Mom, probably missing her cooking, probably remembering how she always gave him this spoon covered in sweet batter, to lick clean. She always did a little extra for Cub, gave him more attention than my other friends, knowing he didn't get many treats like batter spoons in his household of eight. I swear this brought Cub over here more. The boy soaked up her attention the way a sun-baked field absorbs a summer rain.

After a long moment, Cub focuses on me again. “How are we gonna act like the Mosquito is our friend?” He sounds defeated, as if climbing the Blue Ridge Mountains in an hour would be easier than being nice to Skeeter.

“He's got no proof about our dog,” I say. I take the wooden spoon from Cub and start stirring the batter.

Cub rolls his eyes, all impatient. “He does if Bob Kryer has Dead End.”

“Which he doesn't,” I state as plain as possible. “We saw the pooch yesterday. In the woods.”

“I didn't see any dog, Dill.”

I stop stirring and stare at him for a long minute. “What's got you all bitter and sour?”

He glares at me then. “I lied, Dill. I jumped right in, spit out your lie about that new yellow dog to Skeeter.” Cub looks down, shakes his head. “And I said
h-e
double hockey sticks.”

“Skeeter could make anyone curse. He…”

“I don't want him makin' me do anything,” Cub yells. And then he waves me away. “Ah, never mind. You don't get it.”

I scoop batter into the compartments of Mom's muffin tin, giving Cub a minute, knowing not to mess with him when he gets like this. I don't even bother explaining that I
do
get what is bugging him. Neither of us can take being forced to do anything, and especially not by Skeeter. “Okay,” I say as I slide the baking tray into the oven. “Come on. Let's go check on G.D. while breakfast bakes.”

*   *   *

As we step through the back doorway and into the yard, Cub points at the garden.

“G.D.,” I call, happy.

He turns our way, offers a struggling smile while leaning on the picket fence that surrounds the neat rows of bold orange marigolds that alternate between strips of cucumbers, broccoli, lettuce, and tomatoes. “Your mama swore that those flowers, the pumpkin-colored ones, would keep the bugs and critters away from the vegetables,” he says as we get to him. “She was right.” He shakes his head. “Such a smart woman.”

My throat closes up and my chest swells from listening to him talk about Mom with a longing and sadness I understand too well.

“Got a call from Bob Kryer.”

I freeze. Cub groans, pulls on his hair, shoots me an
I told you so
look.

G.D. keeps staring at the vegetables. “Bob is pretty sure he's caught one of the pack dogs.” G.D. turns to look at me then, the wrinkles crevice-deep around his frown, a glassy glaze over his eyes. “A yellow husky mix with a split ear. Sounds like our dog, girl.” The focus of his gaze drops to his boots. “Bob admitted that he's had suspicions about our pooch being a part of the pack, but he didn't want to say anything until he was certain.”

I stare at my granddad without moving. The world keeps spinning, but without me. “That dog can't be Dead End,” I say. But my argument has little fight left in it.

“Dill, the dog Bob caught has a shoulder wound, as if he'd been grazed by a bullet.” G.D.'s hand grips his cane harder. “Ned Jonas shot at dogs when they chased his sheep.”

I start to argue that this means squat, until hooves thud across Mr. Barley's field, a piece of land that stretches out to our left, along the side of our property. Two young steer bolt through an opening in a bramble hedge that separates the field into sections. Wide-eyed and wild, with their nostrils flaring, they gallop fast, snorting and kicking up dust.

“Mr. Barley's new steer,” Cub says as if I haven't figured this out. “What are they freaked about?”

The answer—a yellow blur—shoots out through the hedge opening faster than a racehorse comes out of a starting gate. My fear at what the blond streak is wrestles with my excitement at seeing him home again. “Dead End!”

G.D. pales.

Cub flushes red and points. “They're headin' for the road!”

CRASH!
The steer and dog plow through Mr. Barley's old rail fence as if it were toothpicks held together with dental floss.

“Jeez!” Cub pulls at his hair again. “If that dog is wounded, it sure isn't slowin' him down any!”

At the same time, stocky Mr. Barley, in his dirt-smudged baseball cap, shoots through the opening in the hedge. He stops, staring with his mouth open at the smashed and splintered fence. After a half minute, he turns to G.D., Cub, and me. “I heard yellin'.” He looks back at the field. “Did I see a dog chasing my steer?”

My mouth moves, but no words come out. Cub just stares at the shattered fence.

“That's a freezer full of beef goin' down the road,” Mr. Barley announces, his voice cracking with his growing panic. “I spent two paychecks on that meat.”

“Good-bye hamburger. Good-bye sirloin,” Cub mutters for my ears only.

“Did you get a look at that dog?” Mr. Barley comes toward us, breathing hard now, his face rash-red and as strained as a balloon about to pop. “I bet it's one of those pack dogs everyone's been talkin' about.” Fred looks right at me, his expression hard. “Where's your dog?”

G.D. blinks as if he isn't sure what he's seen. I hold my breath, hoping with everything I have that he and Cub don't rat out Dead End.

Flustered and frantic, Mr. Barley pulls at the visor of his baseball cap as he turns on his heels, not waiting for anyone to answer his question. “I'm calling Sheriff Hawks. We've got to go after that dog and round up my steer before they're fit for nothing but beef jerky.” He jogs back the way he came, a bobbing barrel in overalls, moving faster than I've ever seen him go.

G.D. still gapes at the fence. “Never would have thought Dead End would do anything like that.” Shaking his head, slumped and deflated, G.D. works his cane toward the ranch. “Guess you were right, Dill. Bob must not have our dog. Still, we got more than our share of trouble. Lyon won't keep a pooch that chases animals.”

“Or kills them,” Cub mutters.

I plant my riding boot hard on his foot for that.

“
Oouuff!
Dill!”

G.D. crosses the yard, slower than slow. “I wish I could have taken Dead End to that shelter,” he mutters without looking back at us.

When he steps inside, I start for the bikes. “Come on,” I call to Cub. “We've got to get to Dead End.” But then the telephone rings inside the ranch. Could it be Mr. Kryer again? Or maybe someone else who's seen a yellow dog on the run? I only hesitate a second before I fly into the house. There, I pass G.D. and throw myself at the telephone on the wall at the far end of the kitchen. “Hello?”

“Hey, Dill, it's Tucker Hunter.”

“Oh, hi…” I suddenly picture Crossfire's bridle on a bale instead of in the tack room. My heart begins thudding.

In the same moment, G.D. makes his way into the kitchen, looking as frail and as delicate as a dried leaf. Cub comes up behind him.

“Remember what I told you about that dog Bob Kryer trapped in his barn?” Ms. Hunter's voice sounds too serious.

“Yes, ma'am.”

G.D. makes his way across the kitchen. Cub pushes up beside me, and mouths
Who is it?

“Well,” Ms. Hunter continues, “Bob just discovered that the dog has escaped. It dug a hole deep enough to squeeze out of and crawled under the stall door.”

“Oh?” I picture Dead End's pink-scraped nose. My heart somehow goes to my ears where it thumps a wild rhythm. Even the sweet scent of Mom's blueberry muffins doesn't calm me.

Ms. Hunter sighs. “The sheriff is organizing a huge search for this dog and offering a reward for anyone who brings it in, dead or alive.”

My head begins spinning. I nod to show that I've heard her—as if she can see me. The oven timer starts beeping, announcing that the muffins are done.

As Cub pulls them from the oven, G.D. studies me like he knows something isn't good. But instead of hanging around to question me, he works his cane in a bobbing crawl, out of the kitchen. He heads toward his room, and doesn't even seem to care about breakfast.

“Sheriff Hawks wants to talk to your dad about this,” Ms. Hunter tells me. “I'm not sure why. Is he there?”

“No,” I say, hoping my voice doesn't sound shaky. “I'll tell him you called. And I got to go,” I stammer, watching G.D. move down the hall.

“Oh, okay, Dill.”

She barely gets out
good-bye
before I hang up. “Come on, Cub.” I head for the back door. “That dog Mr. Kryer caught has escaped.”

Cub drops the muffin tin. It hits the stove top with a loud, metallic clank. “Escaped?”

I throw myself back outside instead of answering and grab my bike. Cub follows me. “We got to get Dead End before someone mistakes him for the dog Mr. Kryer captured,” I explain.

“Dill, the man had your dog,” Cub says in a short and impatient tone, accusing Dead End for at least the third time in two days—three more times than necessary.

Instead of telling him to clap his trap shut, I take off on my bike, tearing down the road with him close behind me. But as we come around the bend near his driveway, he skids to a clanking, rubber-burning stop smack in front of Donny and Danny, his oldest brothers. As much as we need to find Dead End, Cub can't pass his family.

Donny drops his shovel, straightens, and smiles at me. “Hey, Dill. Good to see you.”

As worried as I am about the pooch, I thank the heavens that my suddenly weak legs don't give out and leave me face-down on the road. With dirt in my teeth.

Cub's father, who is standing beside the Petersons' idling silver pickup truck, turns and throws me that droopy-eyed pity look that I hate worse than people telling me how I should go to Fairfax. If the minister asks me one more time when I want to talk about Mom, I'll shrug again, and try not to scream
NEVER!

“Cub, Dill,” he says in his creamy-smooth tone. “Did you see a dog chasing steer?”

“Dogs? Steer?” My voice squeaks. Cub's father can probably read my guilt like oversized print.

Mr. Herb Peterson leans out of the pickup. Bald as a boiled egg, his head shines in the sun. “I didn't get a good look, but I think I saw a white or yellow dog.”

The minister's forehead crinkles. “Your dog still at your house, Dill?”

Grateful that Cub hasn't told the minister anything about Dead End, I force a grin and nod, hoping that head bobbing doesn't count as a lie. By some miracle, Cub's father accepts this and turns back to Mr. Peterson.

Shaking his head and grumbling his disappointment with me under his breath, Cub climbs off his bike and pushes it over to his brothers (who make a set, each with the Bayer summer buzz cut). I follow, doing my best not to gawk at Donny.

Cub, still ripe-apple red, tries to act calm. “Where'd that dog chasin' the steer go?”

“Mr. Peterson thinks they ran onto our property,” Donny tells us in his deep voice.

Danny tips his head at the Emerald Hill Sheep Farm sign on the door of Herb Peterson's truck. “He thinks the dog is one of the mutts that killed his prize sheep.”

My throat dries up.

“Let's take a look around your property,” Mr. Peterson says to the minister. “Before I call the sheriff.”

“Sounds good.” The minister moves to the passenger side of the Peterson truck and opens the door. “Boys, finish laying the gravel while I'm gone.”

“Yes, Sir,” Donny answers.

As the truck peels out, Danny turns on Cub. “You know something about that dog they're looking for.” Danny grins, glances at Donny. “Check out the runt's face. He's guilty red and ready to explode.”

“We got to go,” I croak.

“Don't go getting attached to a dog the way you did to Blackie's pup,” Donny warns Cub. Then Donny lifts his shovel. “Now get out of here before I make you shovel stone.”

Cub throws himself back onto his bike and spins out.

“And Dill,” Donny adds, “let us know if you need anything. Anything at all. Okay?”

Even though just the sniff of sympathy gnaws on my nerves, I force a half-smile and mutter
sure
. For Donny. Then I pedal hard to catch up with Cub.

“They'll tell my dad I'm hiding somethin',” he says when I reach him.

“No, family sticks by you when there's trouble,” I point out, handing him Mom's words and hoping with all I have that they're true. “Come on. Let's go to the stable. Maybe Dead End went that way.”

*   *   *

Breathing heavy and running hot, we barely step into the barn when Ms. Hunter comes at us, her long, red braid swinging. “Hey, Dill. Hey, Cub.” She smiles easy. “Dill, could you please clean out the horse trailer? Jerry will be taking it to Ohio to pick up show horses I bought last week.”

Since I can't say
no
to her, I glance at Cub. His nod says that he'll keep looking for Dead End. “Sure,” I answer. “I'll clean out that trailer right away.”

“I knew I could count on you.” She starts to walk away, grinning over her shoulder at me. “How would you like to help me with these new horses? I'd like you to ride them all and see what they can do.”